Gravel in Our Voices
by De Fideli
Summary: He only had a few minutes left to take back everything he'd said to her. Cato-centric ONESHOT.


**A/N: Took a break from No Rest for the Wicked to write a one-shot. Hope you guys enjoy (or cry your eyes out because that's what I did while writing it.) Reviews are always appreciated!**

* * *

"I fucking told you. I'm the one who's going to kill her."  
"You can't, you dumbshit. She'd see you from a mile away. I'm stealthy and quicker than you. I could go in there and kill her easily."  
"You already had that chance once, Clover," he spat her hated nickname with unmistakable venom. Anger coursed through his bloodstream from the earlier explosion of all that they'd needed. District Three's feeble neck snapped so easily in his arms that it hardly provided relief. "And you fucking blew it."  
"So did you," she pointed out, her arms crossed and eyes narrowed, matching every bit of fire that the larger boy had ignited in him. "What, you don't think I can handle her?"  
"No," he said adamantly. "I don't." Immediately, she ran right at him, knocking the larger boy to the ground with her momentum. In a split second, the control of the situation shifted back to Cato, who flipped over and quickly pinned her arms down to the dirt. "Nice try, _Clover._ If you want to get out alive, you're letting me have her."  
She struggled to free her wrists from his vice grip, but to no avail. "Don't pretend you care if I live or not." Raising her knee quickly to his gut, she took advantage of his moment of reaction to escape from beneath him, getting back up to her feet and pulling her knives out, forming a combat stance.  
He stood up, chuckling in amusement as his arrogance danced through the sound. "You're not going to kill me. There can be two victors. Did you not remember that?"  
Her gaze at him spilled of skepticism. "And why would you want that, Cato? Tell me. When you want all the fucking glory to yourself. Because it's all about you, isn't it. Fucking Golden Boy Cato, always coming in first."  
She watched as Cato tensed up at the title she'd bestowed upon him. "It's all about me? Tell me who fucking dragged you out of that lake while you were hallucinating. And why you're even decent at hand to hand combat. Tell me who fucking stayed after training hours with you. That's the problem with you, Clove, You don't fucking give a shit about what people do for you because you're too busy guarding yourself and attacking."  
"That was all for you, you asshole. You knew I was going to be your damn district partner and you couldn't have a weak one, could you?" she spat back. "I fucking know you, Cato. You don't do anything unless it's for your benefit."  
"And I know you, Clove. You think everyone's against you that you would rather run to danger than just fucking have anyone care about you. You're not tough, Clove. You're running fucking scared. You're weak and I was wrong to care," he concluded with such finality. Clove's face grew pink with anger and her knuckles turned white as she pressed her grip harder into the knife at hand.  
"After the feast, this alliance is over," she responded coldly.

* * *

Cato woke up the day of the feast to an empty spot beside him where Clove was supposed to be. _The bitch left without me. Dammit Clove. She never listens. She never fucking listens._ It wasn't about fire girl getting to her—it was Eleven, and Cato dared not mention it. Eleven was Cato's size and though Clove won many of her hand to hand matches, they were never against Cato or anyone his size.  
He sat there in anger, packing up the supplies that Clove had left. _Dumb bitch. If she gets in trouble. I'm not fucking saving her,_ he muttered to himself. The truth was, he shouldn't have cared that much. He was convinced he could win it all by himself—two victors rule or not. He didn't need Clove, he repeatedly told himself so.  
But then he heard it. The bloodcurdling scream of his name and just like that, he lept to his feet grabbing the nearest weapon. "Clove!" he instinctively yelled back._Are you fucking kidding me, Clove?_ he thought at first as he fought through the forestry. The shallow thought clouded what he really meant—Clove would never, ever scream like that for help. Unless…. no, it couldn't be. As he reached the clearing of the Cornucopia, he saw her, laying still on the ground. _No. No, no, no. Clove, fucking get up._ "Clove!" he yelled again, as if it would make her get up—as if his barking would anger her enough and she would throw a knife at him. But she remained still.  
He dropped his spear and rushed to her side, her face much more pale than he had ever seen. He put a hand on her shoulder and another gripped her own hand. "Clove. Clove, no, stay with me, dammit," he begged, the desperation in his voice evident.  
His vision was blurring and before he knew it, a tear escaped his lids and rolled down his cheek, betraying his strong front. "Clove. I'm sorry, dammit, I'm sorry. You're not weak, dammit Clove, don't fucking do this to me. Don't you dare leave me, Clove."  
And then he felt it, her hand twitch in his. "Cato," she breathed weakly, and it all seemed too unnatural to Cato. It couldn't be real—Clove didn't look like she was about to fall apart at any minute. "I'm s-sorry, I…"  
"Clove. Don't you dare fucking apologize right now, dammit. Do that when you're better. You'll get better, okay? Please. Please, Clove."  
"I can't…. hurts…." she groaned softly, her eyelids fighting to stay up.  
"Clove," he pleaded. "Don't go. I can't win without you. I can't. I've gone too damn far with you, Clove. Please."  
"I love…" she whispered, and as the canon fired, all Cato could see was the girl he'd known all of childhood, so bruised and beaten to be able to be attached to anything. The one that could match up anyone's level of anger and hatred but bolted at any hint of compassion. She understood him. She knew why Cato was so isolated, so selfish and so ruthless… he didn't know how to love either. Not until that moment.  
"I love you too," he whispered.


End file.
